


Identity

by cognitive_recalibration



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (kind of) Meet-Cute, Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, M/M, Meet-Cute, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Press and Tabloids, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, alter egoes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-06 02:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10323041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognitive_recalibration/pseuds/cognitive_recalibration
Summary: Tony, king of well-intentioned and terrible ideas, takes Steve to a strip-club in an attempt to cheer him up.  Strangely, it works, but only because the bartender is a spitting image of his dead best friend.  Steve’s not sure if he’s delusional or Bucky’s somehow returned through science or magic, but he’s not prepared to let this go, no matter what secrets Bucky seems to be keeping.





	1. Alter Ego

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm writing this in an effort to get back on track with my writing goals and hopefully help me be less depressed. I've been totally obsessing with Captain America for a couple months now, so I gave it a shot. Don't know what I was thinking. These characters are hard for me to pin down. And then I decided to make it a story about bartenders and veterans when I'm a non-drinking pacifist. *cringe* I kind of know where this is going, but not really, so feel free to let me know if you have ideas or suggestions. Or... say anything at all. I need friends.
> 
> Rating may go up and tags will be added as I figure out what the hell I'm doing.

Captain America was well-loved.  Revived from the dead, the war hero had once again proved himself an invaluable and righteous man. Criminals fled from him.  Children flocked to him. He smiled at strangers, posed for photos when someone inevitably recognized him, and rescued kittens in trees for elderly women (who were usually younger than himself).  Following the events of the alien invasion of New York, the Avengers liked him, trusted him, and respected him as a leader. The public adored Captain America.

The problem was that to everyone he met, Steve Rogers was simply the name behind Captain America’s mask.  Even the people he worked with or spoke to regularly couldn’t seem to distinguish between Steve Rogers and Captain America.  People seemed to understand the difference between Tony Stark and Iron Man, and they sure as hell appreciated the difference between Bruce Banner and the Hulk, but Steve’s whole being seemed to have been replaced while he was sleeping with a fabricated, idealistic publicity stunt. 

For the first time in his life, Steve Rogers felt completely alone.  He’d never had many people in his life, but he prided himself on the quality of them.  The only family he’d ever had was his ma, and she died when he was still a teenager.  It hurt something awful, and he was all kinds of depressed for a long while, but he wasn’t alone because Bucky was there.  Bucky, who could read his mind with a quick once-over.  Bucky, who had always known what to say to make him feel loved and not weak, even when finishing his fights and bandaging his cuts.  Bucky, who had a vigorous loyalty that far surpassed common sense and chose to bestow it on Steve long before anyone else was willing to take a chance on him.   Bucky, whom Steve had loved his whole life. 

But Bucky was dead, and Steve finally understood the enormity of being completely alone.  It crushed in on him every day as he went about some quasi-normal life.  Steve had never felt so small, even when he’d been a 95 pound adult.  He visited Peggy regularly, and sometimes it helped, but mostly it just hurt.  He thought it was probably better than feeling entirely hollow.  

“It’s okay to mourn.” Peggy said one afternoon visit, patting his hand and smiling at him, eyes and voice wonderfully, remarkably clear.  “It’s been decades for me and sometimes I still mourn for everything that we lost in the war.  It’s only been two years for you.  You’re allowed to mourn.”

“Am I allowed to mourn Steve Rogers?” Steve asked before he could think better of it, holding onto the old woman’s hand with the most tender and gentlest of his touches.  He doubted she would understand, but there were many questions that disappeared into dementia. 

“No.”  Peggy stated firmly, dragging herself slightly more upright and looking at Steve sternly.  “You are not allowed to mourn Steve Rogers when he is so vibrant, and so strong, and so alive.  You’re just going to have to find someone that can appreciate him as much as I have.”

Steve ran his free hand through his hair.  “I’m not sure how.”

“Well, I’ve never known you to run away from a fight.”


	2. Eager Beavers

The first time Steve referred to Captain America as a separate entity, he earned a table full of confused and concerned looks.  He tried not to take it personally.

The first time Steve refused to take a photo with a stranger on the street for no immediately apparent reason or apology, he received a memo in his email account about bad press and something called “twitter.”  Steve feigned an inability to navigate email.

The first time Steve let his sarcastic wit tear through some tech who was being rude to her intern, Natasha actually felt his forehead for a fever.  He wasn’t sure if it was just for dramatic effect, but he found that he felt a whole lot lighter following the incident.  Steve made very little effort to curb his sarcasm when he wasn’t on missions afterward.  Well, except around Tony.  Tony seemed to think his appreciation for sarcasm was directly due to spending time with Tony himself, which made the whole endeavor less enjoyable somehow.  

A month passed with little to show for his efforts.  There still seemed to be no line between Steve Rogers and Captain America in anyone’s mind, just an increasingly poorly behaved American idol, but Steve did feel more at ease in his own skin again, and there was some part of him that was getting a perverse satisfaction from warping people’s perceptions of him. 

Of course, it was Tony who finally brought up his shifting behavior while they were flying back from a mission and the billionaire was still hyped up on adrenaline but had no gadgets on hand to fiddle with.  “You’re depressed.”  He declared with finality.

Steve looked up from where he was doodling caricatures of the Avengers.  He evaluated Tony’s statement and decided that he was probably correct, but there was no way he was capitulating to that.  Steve Rogers had never admitted to feeling like crap even when they called in the priest for his last rites when he was very young and perpetually sick.  “Oh?”  He raised an eyebrow and threw in a touch of disdain.  

Tony was completely unfazed.  “Definitely.  So, I’m going to take you out on the town.”

Clint and Natasha were openly staring at them.  Steve glanced at them both so see if this was some sort of known prank.  He’d been pranked a lot as a kid.  If Bucky had made the invitation, Steve would have put a token fight about not being able to dance, but gone along with his scheme anyway.  If Charlie Baxter who lived in the apartment downstairs from the one he shared with Bucky had offered, Steve would have known to keep to himself for at least a week.  But these were all new people and new times and new rules.  The closest he had as reference was Howard.  If Howard Stark had offered to take him out on the town, what would Steve do? “Yeah, okay.”

Tony, who looked as if he’d been compiling a list of arguments in his head, seemed surprised but genuinely pleased.  Instead, he jumped at the opportunity, as if fearing that Steve would change his mind.  He clapped his hands together. “Excellent.  We should land in D.C. before 8:00, so we can grab something to eat, and then we’ll head out.  I know the perfect place.”

“You do know that going with Tony is a terrible idea, right?”  Natasha deadpanned, unconcerned about Tony’s insulted protests. 

If he had service, Steve would be googling the phrase ‘out on the town’ to see if the definition had changed, but the looks he was receiving were more pitying than alarmed or guilty, so he probably hadn’t just agreed to an orgy.  Steve just shrugged.  It wasn’t like any of them knew what he liked besides truth, justice and the American way. 

“So I take it you don’t want in?”  Tony asked petulantly, turning to address the red-head as the jet set down.  

“I didn’t say that.”  Natasha smiled in a way that was borderline unfriendly.  “Watching you crash and burn is a hobby I haven’t really been able to enjoy fully since I left your employment.”

“Always happy to oblige.” Tony responded congenially.  “Barton?”

“I’ll pass.” 

“Suit yourself.”  Tony tapped his sunglasses down from the top of his head even though it was really too dark for them to be needed, and strolled down the jet’s ramp to the tarmac like he owned the place. It was possible he did.  Stark hopped into a waiting limo, so Steve dutifully followed, hoping this wouldn’t be a disaster.  Natasha joined them a moment later, and Tony rattled off the name of a fancy restaurant Steve had seen downtown but never entered. 

The conversation was stilted over dinner, at least for Steve.  It was the first restaurant they’d been to since the schawarma and now they lacked the excuse of being too utterly exhausted to talk.  It didn’t seem to bother Tony who was yammering on about some new innovation at Stark Tower that was going to blow the rest away in between flirting with the waitress and rejecting Nat’s frequent attempts to change the topic.   But Steve couldn’t really ignore that they’d been spotted or the flashing of bulbs outside the restaurant.  He didn’t usually go out to eat, and he’d never been in a fancy restaurant like this.  He barely got out a few sentences over dinner, despite his resolution to be more of Steve Rogers outside the field. 

“So, Steve,” Natasha forced him into the conversation, if only to avoid more particulars of Tony’s robot-building soliloquy, “There’s this new assistant to Hill you should meet.  Her name’s Cynthia and she’s very sweet.”

Steve fiddled with his drink and took a stalling sip.  He wanted to say no, but Peggy’s words were still floating around in his mind. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to meet her.” 

Nat gave him a stunning smile.  “I’ll set something up.”

Tony paid the bill, and they all piled back into his limo which seemed to have appeared at the entrance as soon as they stepped outside.  Tony was gleefully whispering directions to the driver through the lowered partition screen.  Nat was scowling, and Steve felt out of his depth, like he might never catch up to all the minutiae of living in the future.  “He has a reputation to maintain.”  Natasha reminded. 

Tony waved at the air dismissively.  “It’ll be great.  We can unwind, get some of D.C.’s best mixed drinks, and if everything goes well, maybe Cap here will no longer be a 90 year old virgin.”

Nat was already opening her mouth (to defend his honor?), but Steve cut her off.  “I don’t mind. I’m sure I’ve been to a lot worse places in the war.” He wasn’t sure where they were going, so he couldn’t be sure that his statement was true, but he was certain that Tony, for all his insulting phrasing, was genuinely trying to be nice and helpful to him.  He also seemed to be taking him to a place that wasn’t appropriate for Captain America, so it might actually be a good thing for his plan to separate himself from his alter ego. 

The nondescript, square, one-story building was labelled Eager Beavers on a large, light-up sign. A bass line could be heard from the outside, but there was still no outward explanation for the purpose of the building.  A bouncer stood by the door, but moved aside to let the three of them in without a word.  It was likely that one or all of them were recognized and they hadn’t even entered yet.  Tony waltzed passed like he expected this treatment everywhere. 

If the mostly naked girls twirling bedazzled pastie tassels was anything to go by, Steve was pretty sure he’d just voluntarily walked into a strip club with Tony.  Both Steve Rogers and Captain America hated strip clubs.  They profiteered off the objectification of women, promoted sexual abuse and generally catered to the cesspool of humanity.   Steve grimaced.  They also made Steve Rogers really uncomfortable. 

 Tony had already managed to acquire a table within inches of the stage and was gesturing him over.  Nat was nowhere to be seen, managing to disappear despite being one of the few female patrons.  Steve motioned to the bar and quickly moved through the throng of people to claim an empty seat at the end.  It was a busy night, but the seat was obviously undesired because it put his back completely to the stage.  The bartender was facing a customer on the opposite side of the bar, so Steve waited morosely.  He thought he might hate Tony a little bit.  Steve was not really sure what he’d expected when he agreed, but he was pretty sure he should have seen this one coming.

“What can I get you?” 

The familiar voice was directly in front of him, and Steve jerked his head up unthinking.  The hair was longer, dragging down by the man’s shoulders, but the face was unmistakeable. “Bucky?”

The bartender’s eyebrows furrowed, his whole face pinching slightly.  “What the hell is a Bucky?” He sighed and continued before Steve could manage to stop making the flopping-fish-face.  “If you’re one of those Secret Shoppers here to bust my chops again, you have to order from the menu.”

Steve shook his head and the man visibly relaxed.  “Don’t you… recognize me?”

The bartender gave him a once-over, lingering on his face.  “Well, I’d say you were Captain America, but I’m pretty sure our current location precludes that option.”

“I am.”  There were about a thousand things he wanted to say, questions he wanted to ask, but Steve bit his tongue.  The staring was probably awkward enough, and he couldn’t bear to lose this Bucky impersonator even while his mind screamed at him that it had to be a trap.

“Good for you.” The bartender grinned one of Bucky’s signature grins.  “But you still have to pay for your drinks.”

Steve couldn’t help but return the infectious smile. “Of course.” 

“Now, are you ordering or are you just here for the view?”  

“Uh…” Steve looked up at the menu posted above the bar: seven chalkboards filled with unfamiliar drink names and prices.  “Something berry?  And you can skip the alcohol.”

“Fruity virgin. Got it.” The bartender’s smile was definitely teasing now, and Steve fought the urge to blush and duck his head.  It was the kind of backwards comment that Steve would tolerate from Bucky, but have earned anyone else a sock to the jaw back in Brooklyn.  He couldn’t exactly knock people out for name-calling anymore.

Steve watched the bartender fix up a drink with real blueberries and strawberries and a couple of mystery syrups mixed in with something sparkling from the tap.  It was actually delicious.  Steve looked up from his first sip to ask the name of the drink, but not-Bucky had already moved on down the line and was filling other orders.   

Steve watched the bartender work as he tried to come to grips with what was going on.  How was this even possible?  The most likely option, he decided, was that he had been knocked out in the last fight and was dreaming all of this up.   He’d probably figure that out soon enough, so he concentrated on other options.  A Bucky look-alike, genetic anomaly or perhaps unknown descendant?  It was  _ possible _ , he supposed, but the similarities were astounding. The voice, the exact shade of hair and eye color… Steve was more inclined to think clone, but for what purpose? He heart told him that it was Bucky himself, but how was that even possible? He’d have to have survived a plummet to his death and not aged for 70 years.  Then again, that’s what Steve had done, so perhaps it wasn’t all that far-fetched?  He’d also have to have amnesia, but in the grand scheme of things, that was actually the least improbable.  But altogether… Steve had no idea what to think.  

“So, what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this, anyway?” The bartender was back, voice pitched low to keep their conversation private.  He was wiping down the counter that looked plenty clean already, but his eyes were on Steve.  It was a line; he knew it was a line, but since the alternative phrasing was ‘What’s Captain America doing in a strip club?’ like some kind of off-color joke, he’d take the line.

“Ignoring good advice and following Tony Stark.”

“That’s a dangerous road you’re on.” The bartender said sagely.  “It might be best to leave before someone else recognizes you, Captain.”

“It’s just Steve tonight, and Steve’s actually having a pretty good time.” Steve smiled a genuine smile.  Despite their location, he felt more relaxed than he could remember feeling since he came out of the ice. He’d missed the way Bucky’s mere presence could drain the tension right out of him.

Not-Bucky shrugged.  “Hard not to, when you’re in such fine company.”

The conversation should have been stilted with the way the bartender kept disappearing to keep up with the drink orders, but Steve didn’t mind.  It gave him time to drink in the sight of the man he thought he’d never see again and come to terms with the strange turn of events.  They chatted, a few sentences at a time, for hours.

“Another?” 

Steve glanced down at the third drink he’d managed to empty without thinking.  “Yeah.  It was pretty good.  What’s it called?” 

“I haven’t named it yet.  I’m still tinkering with the ingredients, but I thought you might like it.” 

“I did, in fact.”

“Shall I spike it this time?  It goes pretty well with white rum.”

Steve shook his head.  “No sense in wasting good alcohol on someone who can’t get drunk.”

“You can’t get drunk?” The tone was somewhere between curious and challenging.

“My metabolism burns through it too quickly to really enjoy the effects.”

“Challenge accepted.” The bartender grinned like he had a wicked secret and rummaged through the shelves below the bar.  He pulled out a plain glass bottle with no label containing a clear liquid.  It was poured into a pint-glass and cut with an ale on tap and topped with a slice of lime.  “I usually serve it in shot glasses with half water to guys who think they’re hot snot.  If that don’t get you at least tipsy, I’ll cover your tab.”

Steve examined the drink dubiously, but he wasn’t about to turn it down.  Not-Bucky waited impatiently this time to see what he thought of it.  He took a gulp and sputtered nearly as bad as he had over his first glass of whiskey.  The bartender clapped his hands in delight.  

“I call it Dragon’s Breath.  Make it myself.”

“Yeah, I can taste the fire.” Steve commented drily once he’d composed himself.  “You sure you’re not trying to kill me?”

“Alcohol poisoning would probably be the least efficient way to kill you.  And what a waste of perfectly good home brew.”

Steve smiled and took another gulp.  Now that he knew what to expect, it really wasn’t bad.  The bartender slipped away to fill other orders while Steve mindlessly stared and worked his way through half the glass.  By which point, Steve had decided that there was no way this could  _ not _ be Bucky.  He was broader than he remembered, but it was clearly muscle mass and not a difference in their frame.  And the hair was… well, unexpected, but not  _ not _ Bucky.  He never would have worn it like that back in the ‘40s, but only because Bucky was fashionable and vain about his hair.  Now that it was socially acceptable for men to keep their hair long, it just seemed like another way of showing it off.  The outfit was somewhat gaudy: long white sleeve shirt with white gloves and a garishly colored vest, but that was probably a uniform and not his choice. And everything else was identical to the Bucky of his memories. It was the same charming grin, the same pitch and inflection in his voice, the same teasing word choice, the same comfortable grace, the same warmth in his pale blue eyes. 

It took Steve a minute to realize that Bucky was back and talking to him and that his cup was totally empty.  “Damn it, you’re not supposed to drink it that quickly.  I’m not even sure what effect it’ll have on your system.”

“I think I’m drunk.”  Steve declared, loudly enough to gain some unwanted attention.  He overcompensated, leaning in to whisper, “I missed you.”

“I was ten feet away for like five minutes.”  Bucky responded, “Are you feeling alright?  Not feeling faint, right?”

“I feel great! The best I’ve been in 70 years, I think. ‘M not alone.”

“Right.”  Bucky drawled, waving over a waitress.  “Jess, can you get Tony Stark? Tell him his friend is ready to leave.”

“I’m not ready to leave.” Steve protested as the young woman disappeared into the crowd.  

“I think you’ll regret it if you stay, buddy.”

Steve frowned.  “I know I’ll regret it if I go.” 

Bucky’s expression was unreadable.  “Why’s that?”

“Because what if I let you out of my sight, and I never see you again?”  And okay, that kind of sounded like a line, too. 

And now that the words were out there in the air, Steve felt especially pathetic.  But Bucky just looked vaguely amused.  He probably had a great deal of practice with crazy, love-sick drunks.  “You know where I work.”

“You got him drunk!” Tony stated instead of a greeting, looking a bit tipsy, but carrying himself like he had years of practice pretending to be sober.

Bucky tensed.  “He got himself drunk.  I only provided the means.”

“That’s fantastic. You’ve gotta let me know what works on this guy.”

Steve scowled.  He hadn’t realized how valuable it was that Tony believed he couldn’t get drunk. Bucky’s eyes flicked to him before he shook his head.  “Classified.” 

Jess handed Bucky a bill, which he plugged into the register while Tony sighed in dismay. “Well, put any mystery drinks you gave him on my bill.”  Bucky nodded and cheerfully pecked away at the keypad while Tony tried to coax Steve to his feet.  “C’mon, Capsicle.  Your chariot awaits.”

“Where’s Nat?” He wasn’t sure why it hadn’t occurred to him before, and apparently he was slurring his words now. 

Tony snorted.  “She left hours ago. I told her to find you and we could all go, but she said you looked like you were having fun.”  Steve could just imagine what he looked like, gaze following the bartender around like a puppy the whole night.

While Tony sorted out the check, Steve took the opportunity to stand.  He nearly tumbled to the ground, but caught himself on the bar.  Tony looked at him unimpressed.  He scanned the itemized receipt for what Steve guessed was a clue about his drinking habits but seemed disappointed by whatever was written on it.  “Hey, Barkeep, help me get him to the car.”

“I’ve got customers.” Bucky replied.

“Well, you got him too drunk to stand, so it’s only fair you help me with the luggage.  No way I can carry this guy without my suit.”

Bucky’s expression was caught somewhere between exasperated and indulgent, a look Steve had seen frequently, and knew he would come help before he even gestured for someone to cover for him. “I maintain that this was not my fault.”  Bucky said primly as he looped Steve’s left arm over his shoulders, and steadied him while Tony followed his example on the other side.  

They had to move slowly through the building, but most people moved out of the way for them. “You know,” Tony panted slightly. “This is a lot more fun when I’m the drunk being carried.”

“Then Steve could have carried you by himself, and I could be doing my job.”  Bucky sounded annoyed, but Steve knew it was all for show.  Bucky always used to pretend to be a whole lot meaner than he was.   _ Keeps people from taking advantage, Stevie. _  He’d say.  

They were almost to the limo, and it suddenly hit Steve that he had Bucky again, tucked under his arm and pressed along his side.  He couldn’t waste this precious moment.  Pulling his arm off Tony, Steve took a lurching step forward, pivoted on his heel and wrapped Bucky in a hug.  He was tense, but he didn’t squirm or try and get away.  He even lifted one arm and gently patted Steve’s back.  Steve melted like butter against him, realizing suddenly that he’d been shaking.  

“C’mon, Cap.  We can have a meltdown in the car like normal superheroes. Just four more steps.”  Tony encouraged from behind him, car door already hanging open.  The words were outwardly cruel, but the tone was honest and understanding.  Steve wondered how many times Tony had had a breakdown in the car.

Steve wanted to shake his head and cling tighter, but he’d already pushed this way too far.  Bucky didn’t know him anymore, and if he kept this up, he wasn’t going to want to know him. Steve pulled away stiffly, feeling a lot more sober and a little steadier on his feet.  “Sorry.”  He mumbled at the ground, unable to risk looking in Bucky’s eyes and see that he’d already blown his chance. 

Bucky’s weight was shifting from foot to foot like he did whenever he had to make a decision quickly.  Then, he abruptly tugged a pen out of his pocket, grabbed Steve’s hand in one sudden movement and scribbled a series of numbers across his forearm.  Bucky gave him a saucy grin and scurried back inside without a goodbye.

Tony didn’t say anything until they’d both fumbled into the back of the limo.  Steve found himself crumpled in a heap on the floor while Tony stretched out on the soft cushions and directed the driver towards Steve’s home.  “Well,” Tony said after a length of time that nearly had Steve falling asleep.  “I was  _ going _ to say you have no game, but I’ve clearly underestimated you. It’s not a easy thing for a guy to pick up other guys at a strip club, but you’ve managed it.  I’m just going to text Nat and let her know that she missed out on you getting the number of the hot bartender by crying on his shoulder.”

“Tony…” Steve began in warning, but there was really no way the man was going to keep this under his hat. 

“I do wish you’d’ve told me, though. I could have taken you to a ladies’ night.”

“It’s not like that.”  Steve started, but he didn’t really have much else to say.  He didn’t want to tell Tony the truth, not until he’d sorted out what it was himself, but the billionaire had clearly already come to his own conclusions.  “I just want to be friends.”

“Right.” Tony snorted.  “Well, you better tell” he craned his head to look at Steve’s arm, “Jamie that because I’m pretty sure he didn’t get the memo.”

Steve raised his arm and looked at the number, just noticing the name Jamie printed neatly above.  He blamed being very drunk for forgetting that a Bucky with amnesia would probably not go by Bucky. He reviewed the conversation they’d had over the evening, and even he had to admit that many of his comments had come across a lot more like a man with a crush than a man trying to make friends. Still, whatever the circumstances, Bucky had given him his phone number, so there was hope that he could keep Bucky in his life. Steve stayed silent but it didn’t deter Tony at all.

“Actually, you’d better not break his heart like that.  Kid looked like he was giving up on heterosexuality in order to give you his number.  Can’t blame him for making that choice though. I mean, who would pass up on a chance to sleep with Captain America?”

“Tony.” Steve groaned.  “Shut up.”


	3. Joggers

Steve passed out in Tony’s car.   He’s pretty sure he roused himself enough to make it into his apartment under his own power because he could vaguely recall tripping over stairs.  He certainly hoped he had.  Tony would never let him live it down if he’d been forced to carry a passed out from drinking Captain America.  When he woke up again, he was sleeping half-off his bed fully clothed.  His head pounded like he’d just gone seven rounds with Bruce Banner decked in green, and his mouth was painfully dry.  It was 3:48 in the morning.  

After downing three glasses of water and tugging off his shoes, Steve fell back into his bed to sleep.  By 6:16, his body had worked through its hangover and was telling him that he was good to go.  He reviewed the previous evening and was caught somewhere between complete mortification and soul-lurching hope.  Had Bucky really been there? 

The number was still scrawled across his arm, although he’d apparently drooled on it enough in his sleep that the last couple digits were a little hard to make out.  He wanted to call right then, confirm that he hadn’t been imagining everything, but Nat’s voice rang out in his head, explaining that in the 21st century, people didn’t call except for professional reasons or as a last resort.  So, despite desperately wanting to hear Bucky’s voice again, he popped open his phone and, before he could think better of it, sent off a quick apology text to ‘Jamie.’  He signed it Steve, figuring that would be ambiguous enough if he did get the number wrong.  

Then, he proceeded to spend the next two minutes and twelve seconds panicking.  What if Bucky didn’t want to hear from him?  What if it was too soon, and he came off as overly interested and scared Bucky away?  What if Bucky had given him the wrong number in order to get rid of him, people did that, right? Or, worst of all, what if this was all just in his head?

The phone beeped, and Steve nearly fell off the bed in an effort to grab it quickly.  Despite the harsh words, the response actually calmed him down because it sounded just like what Bucky would say, if texting had been a thing when they were growing up.  _ ‘Too fucking early for this, Rogers.’  _

Steve sighed in relief, then chuckled to himself.  Of all the reasons he’d decided that texting Bucky was a terrible idea, it hadn’t occurred to him that it really was too early to be texting someone who worked late in the evenings.  He probably had only gotten off work a couple hours ago.

And he really needed to stop calling him Bucky in his head.  That was bound to end up being a serious problem.  

Satisfied that it hadn’t been a complete hallucination at least, Steve pulled himself from bed and threw on something to jog in.  Usually, he went to the gym in his complex and used the treadmills.  For some odd reason, people seemed to think something was wrong whenever they saw Captain America running.   But today the unseasonably cool late August weather was calling to him and he felt the urge to run outside. 

Steve wandered a few blocks at a walk and took in the scenery.  He thought he might draw later today.  The idea took him by surprise.  He hadn’t felt the almost compulsive pull of his sketch pad in years. 

Steve found himself behind a jogging man in gray sweats, and decided this was as good a place as any to run.  Clearly people jogged here, so it shouldn’t be a problem for him to run.  He passed the man with a muttered “on your left” and received an indignant squawk in reply.  Steve felt a little giddy and playfully sped up so he could rub it in by lapping him a few more times.  Each time he came up, Steve would let him know he was passing him, and the jogger became increasingly sarcastic and irritated.  Steve thought he might have attempted to catch up once or twice, but just pushed himself faster to make sure it was impossible.  

Finally, after running a couple extra laps, Steve was sure the other jogger had left.  He felt a cling of disappointment and regretted the playful taunts before he caught the figure panting in the shade of a tree and slowed to a stop.  “Need a medic?”  He asked, cheered by the man’s light-hearted glare. 

“What I need is a new set of lungs.  Dude, you just ran like 13 miles in 30 minutes.”

Steve shrugged.  “Apparently, I’m out of practice.  I should get out more.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.  Take another lap.”  The stranger said with a quirk to his lips.  He paused a few seconds, his breathing finally coming under control and shifted to stand.  “I’m going to assume you just took another lap.  It’s not like I’d know the difference either way.”

Steve reached out a hand and helped the jogger to his feet.  He shook it briefly before letting go.  “Steve Rogers.”

“Yeah, kind of put that together.  I’m Sam Wilson.” 

“Nice to meet you.”  Steve declared and moved to leave, stopping short at seeing a flock of tourists on segways.  He cringed and shifted so his back was facing them, hoping not to be spotted.  

Sam chuckled, which was fair enough revenge for tormenting him while jogging.  “Bet you miss the good ol’ days, huh?”

It was the sort of throw-away comment that Steve got a lot.  He usually let it roll off his shoulders with a noncommittal few word response.  But Steve felt very different today.  He felt like he was becoming human again, and consciously resisted the urge to check his phone for another message from Bucky.  He also felt like Sam was someone he could trust and let his guard down around. “There was hardly a soul who would recognize me out of uniform in the ‘40s.  Now I’m in all the history books and can’t walk down the street without a barrage of picture requests. I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a celebrity.”

“Well… I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to catch you if you ran.”

Steve snorted at the unexpected joke, trying and failing to contain his laughter.  When he had it under control again, he said, “Steve Rogers never runs away from a fight.”

Sam clapped his hand onto Steve’s shoulder.  “Let’s discuss battle plans then.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not morally acceptable to kill someone just because they have a day job as a vulture.”

“Nah, you just need to harness the media’s power for good.  Use your fame to shine a light on some issues.  Help raise awareness for charities. Or, you know, visit me down at the VA and help out some struggling veterans.”

Steve raised an eyebrow.  “No alternative motives there.”

“Well, I mean, you would make me look awesome in front of the girl at the front desk, but it’s mostly for the veterans.  Plus, they only want juicy gossip.  You keep your life boring in their eyes, and they’ll fade away.”

Steve looked at his phone, ostensibly checking the time, but really looking to see if Bucky had texted him.  He hadn’t.  It was still too early for Steve to reasonably text him again, so he shrugged.  “I don’t have any plans.  How does this morning sound?”


	4. Pretty Sure Cap Doesn't Know the Term Bisexual

Steve’d been trying to avoid veterans for a while now, but it turned out to be completely unnecessary.  Somehow, he was sure they would see him as a fraud because he felt like a fraud most of the time.  He’d gotten into the army under one untied tent-flap, and someone was going to call him on it at some point.  He’d been promoted to captain over so many more deserving men solely for appearance’s sake.  And ultimately, it was the serum that made him Captain America because no amount of hard training was going to fix what was wrong with him.

In their tent one night when the wind was howling too fierce to be overheard, Steve had confessed his fears to Bucky.  Bucky had slapped him on the shoulder and chuckled like he’d said something absurd.  “Ain’t nothing bout you that’s less than genuine.”

Following Sam into the VA wasn’t nearly as bad as Steve had anticipated.   The girl at the front desk had, in fact, looked super impressed with Sam when they walked in together, and he was introduced as Sam’s ‘good friend.’ Sam stayed and flirted for a while, so Steve wandered the lobby, getting excited whispers and stares.  After the first older man with a missing leg came up to him and shook his hand, it was like the dam had broken and everyone wanted to talk to him, to tell him he was an inspiration.  He thought he’d feel overwhelmed, but the atmosphere was entirely different than when reporters swarmed around him.  These people wanted to share stories with him, wanted him to know who they were.  It was much closer to a feeling of being given many presents instead of being looked under a microscope like when he was normally approached. 

After a while, Sam came to his rescue, slipping through the mass and gently extracting him while a few shouts of him being on a schedule.  Steve gave him a partially relieved, partially incredulous look.   

“You still good?  I won’t blame you if you want to bail.”

“I’m actually doing alright.”

Sam gave him a megawatt smile and dragged him into a group session he was about to start.   The morning passed quickly.  There was a lot more listening than there was speaking for him, and Steve found that he actually did have a lot in common with the people gathered around him.  They spoke of the pressure, the ostracization, the fight between being a good person and having to hurt and even kill people.  They talked about how adjusting back to civilian life was sometimes more challenging than any of that because everyone just expected you to forget everything that had been your life for years.  They talked about how lonely it was having to hide the parts of you that people didn’t seem to want to see.  Steve glanced back at Sam who gave him a very knowing look.  

“When you said that I was going would help struggling veterans, I didn’t realize you were talking about me.”  Steve commented when they were sitting together in a booth at a local diner.  Sam insisted it was to say thank you, but Steve thought it had something to do with the way his stomach rumbled even after eating far too many cookies in the meeting. 

Sam gave him a shit-eating grin.  “It’s a two-way street, my friend.  You should make a regular appearance.”

“I think I might.”  Steve conceded.  It certainly felt good to be trying to help others instead of hiding away by himself.

The conversation shifted, Sam talking about some local news and the best things on the menu.  Steve talked about an art exhibit he’d wanted to go to.  It was easy.  It was so easy that it took a while for Steve to realize why it was so easy.  Sam was talking to him as Steve Rogers and not Captain America.  The normal stilt that accompanied his every conversation was gone.  Maybe Peggy was right.

“So, is it a girl?”

“Hmm?” Steve asked, pushing his phone back into his pocket.  Had he said his thoughts aloud?

“Why you keep checking your phone?”

Steve felt his face go a little red, wondering how often he’d checked it without thinking that Sam felt the need to comment.  “Uh, no.  It’s not a girl.”  Steve decided to just go for it.  Sam was a therapist, after all, he’d probably heard stranger stories.  “I talked to someone last night that I thought was dead.”

“And this dead person is communicating to you from beyond through your phone?”

“Well… yes?”  Steve flustered for a moment, but Sam was calm and the eyes resting on him weren’t judgmental.  “I went out with Tony Stark.  The bartender… well, he looked and acted exactly like my friend. We texted afterwards.”

“And can I assume this friend was someone who died in World War II?” Steve nodded.  “And did you see him die?”

The question was a blow, no matter how delicately Sam had said it, but he grit his teeth and responded anyway.  “Not exactly.  I saw him fall.  It was… thousands of feet.”  It sounded a whole lot more like a yes than the no that Steve had attempted to make it.  Sam didn’t comment. 

“And did he appear very old or how you remembered him?”

“How I remembered him.  Maybe a few years older?” Steve resisted the urge to slam his fist into the table.  Real or imagined, he did not want to let Bucky go. “You think I imagined him.”

“I think,” Sam said slowly, “That the mind is very unpredictable and resourceful.  I think that you missed your friend, you saw someone who resembled him, and your mind filled in the pieces to give you what you wanted.  Something very similar happened to me after a good friend of mine was killed on a mission.  It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It’s just… everything about him was the same.  I just made that up?”

“No, you remembered it and placed it over a suitable candidate.”

Steve let out a long, depressed sigh. It hadn’t occurred to him how much he’d gotten his hopes up that this was actually Bucky.  But what Sam said made sense, a whole lot more sense than anything else he’d come up with.  Sam looked genuinely remorseful about popping his bubble.  “What do I do now?”

“I think you should see him again.  I think you’ll notice a lot more details that you missed before because you were trying to see him as your other friend.  And who knows?  You obviously liked him well enough while you were talking to him.  I don’t see any reason why you can’t try and be friends once this is all sorted out.”

Steve nodded morosely.  Last night was clearly just a drunken haze obscuring facts from him.   Sam explained that he needed to get back to work and paid the bill over Steve’s protests.  Sam waved him off, assuring him that his coming to the VA had really meant a lot, and he wanted to show his appreciation.  

Steve went home afterwards, standing in his doorway and feeling the utter emptiness of the apartment.   He didn’t want to sit there by himself, so he took his sketch pad and headed up to the roof.  He’d just found the perfect view and pressed pencil to paper when his phone dinged.  

Steve tried to squelch the hope blossoming back in his chest as he checked the message.  It was an email from Hill wondering if she’d somehow misplaced Steve’s mission report.  Although he had three days to get it in following a mission, Steve had always submitted his promptly, usually finishing them up within a few hours.  He responded that he hadn’t yet given his report and that he would get right on that.  Instead, he went back to his drawing.  

Twenty minutes later, he was interrupted again by a text message from Natasha.    _ ‘You know, if you asked Rick out, from Statistics, he’d probably say yes.’  _

_ ‘Wait… what?’  _

Nat’s reply was almost instantaneous, like she’d been typing before he even responded.  _ ‘Tony told me you were picking up guys at the club.  I didn’t believe him, of course, but the video says otherwise.’ _

_ ‘Wait… what?’ _

_ ‘So I figured that maybe the reason you were turning down all my suggested dates up until last night is that you are not actually interested in the fairer sex.’ _

_ ‘What video?’ _

Nat’s next response took a couple minutes, and Steve sat staring stupidly down at the screen until it automatically locked.  He hadn’t bothered refuting Nat’s claims because it was completely ridiculous. Then again, being a homosexual didn’t make you the kind of pariah that it used to.  People openly admitted to being in same-sex relationships now without fear of legal action against them.  Most people even accepted it.  So, maybe Nat hadn’t been joking about Rick, and Steve really should set her straight on the matter.  But, what did he say?  Should he tell her that he didn’t find guys attractive?  Well, that wasn’t true.  He thought plenty of guys were attractive, even some in a way that was far removed from simple admiration.  He’d just never thought about it before.  Why would he?  The only options he’d been allowed before were to date women or not date.  And he wanted to date women.  Hell, he’d wanted to marry Peggy.  

But, Steve supposed, the real question was whether he wanted to date men.  If it had been an option, would he have wanted to be with another guy?  It was such an odd question, that he nearly balked at it on principle.  Bucky was the only exception that came to mind.  If Bucky had wanted to date him, would Steve have accepted?  The idea sent tingles through him even as part of him told him he shouldn’t be thinking about Bucky in such a way.  He pushed it aside; Bucky had never been anything but devilishly pleased and flattered that people thought about him like that. 

Steve thought about all the reasons Bucky had meant so much to him.  He thought about the way Bucky could find him wherever he fled, like he was just reading his mind, and how pleasant it was to feel understood.  He thought about how safe and comfortable Bucky was with his hand on his shoulder and clear blue eyes locked on his, the way he’d allow Steve to relax and be himself even when expectation steeped around them.  He thought about watching Bucky get ready for a date and the way jealousy had always curled into his gut.  Steve had always assumed it was being jealous that Bucky could get girls, but maybe he was just jealous that Bucky was taking someone else out. He thought about how addictive it was to draw Bucky, eyes able to linger in a way that just wasn’t acceptable in any other context.  Bucky had always submitted to it, explaining that just because they couldn’t afford classes for Steve didn’t mean he should let his talents go to waste without proper practice, but Steve always figured Bucky just enjoyed the attention. 

If Bucky had wanted to date him, would Steve have accepted?  In a heartbeat.  He’d loved Bucky in every way that a person could love someone else. 

If Bucky had wanted to have sex with him, would Steve have gone along with it?  The thought of sex and Bucky in the same sentence sent a slew of images through his head and a heat coursing through him.  That seemed like a yes there, too. 

So, did that make him a homosexual?  He wasn’t sure.  He wanted people for who they were, regardless of their gender.  Why did he have to pick one or the other? And really, there weren’t very many people that had interested him that way in his life.  There was Peggy and, apparently, there was Bucky.  Why did Nat have to keep making it her business?

Some time while Steve was lost in thoughts, the message had come in, a video of the previous night clearly taken from a security camera above the club’s door.  They were facing away and the video was grainy, so it wasn’t all that useful, but did confirm his memories of plastering a hug onto Jamie and the man writing out his number on Steve’s arm. 

Nat was already prompting him to spill the beans in text.   Steve informed her that there were no beans to spill, and proceeded to ignore her following messages. 

He was so wrapped up in drawing and ignoring his phone beeping that he missed a text from Jamie.  

_ ‘So, I sold my shirt coated in genuine drunk Captain America tears for a couple hundred dollars on ebay.’ _

He stared at the words for a solid five minutes before replying.  _ ‘You what?’ _

_ ‘Kidding.’ _

_ ‘There are people who would do that.’  _

_ ‘I know.  I thought it was appropriate revenge for the asshole who woke me up after an hour of sleep.’ _

_ ‘I’m sorry!  I’m an idiot!’ _

_ ‘True.  Anyway, I know it’s short notice, but I’ve got tomorrow off.  I thought if you want, I could show you how I make that special brew.  It was supposed to be a secret, but I think your need is greater than mine.’ _

Steve smiled to himself.  He wasn’t sure he needed to get drunk, but it was a nice sentiment, and Jamie clearly wanted to share this with him.   _ ‘Yeah, I’d like that.’ _

Jamie gave him an address and set the time at 4:00, which Steve readily agreed to.  Afterwards, he supposed Jamie had left for work because there were no more texts.  Steve tried not to be disappointed.  Instead, he started another sketch, drawing Bucky from memory.  It was an easy task as his friend had modeled for him countless times before.  If this Bucky had long hair, well, it wasn’t like anyone was there to see it.


	5. HYDRA Returns

 

The evening passed at a crawl.  Steve wrote his report and turned it in.  He made himself a dinner that didn’t taste half as bad as it looked.  He spent an inordinate amount of time trying to decide what to wear the next day and if it was a date.  He fell asleep in front of his TV while binge watching some Netflix. 

In the morning, he hurriedly got ready so he could do his morning jog with Sam again.  Steve had made sure to get his number yesterday, but he didn’t really want to use it, lest there was a repeat of waking someone up after too little sleep.  

Sam was there, simultaneously pissed off and happy to see him. “Man, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think my ego could stand the bruising of you ‘jogging’ with me again.”

Steve smiled wide, reminiscing about yesterday’s teasing, even as he dropped from his run to keep pace with the man beside him.  He didn’t want to make Sam feel bad.  “Thought I’d warm up with something slow today.” 

Sam eyed him suspiciously, like he expected Steve to take off any moment, but Steve just smiled back at him. “Not much of a workout for you.”

“Endurance can be important training, too.  Besides, there’s more than one reason to go for a jog.”

Sam was appeased and the two of them struck up a conversation that was easy and relaxing.  It started out with a discussion of veteran services and Steve possibly being scheduled in and somehow tangented off into the realm of reality television, which Steve admitted quite readily that he had no idea what it was about or why it was popular.  Sam laughed and admitted that he didn’t know either.

Finally, Sam stopped, sitting heavily on a bench and taking a long drink of water.  Steve took the opportunity to increase his pace and sprint for a few laps by himself.  Sam relaxed against the bench, looking like he had all the time in the world, so Steve pushed himself until he broke out in a sweat, circled a few more laps, then collapsed on the bench beside Sam.  

“Geez, you’re not even breathing hard.”  Sam remarked, half in awe, half in jealousy.  “Did they ever clock you?”

“A few times, though I always felt like I could go faster with proper motivation.”

“And what was it?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Sam shook his head and chuckled.  “No, I suppose I don’t.”

Steve quickly checked his phone (just in case), but Sam was watching him knowingly.  Nothing from Bucky, but Nat had sent him a message that she was picking him up. 

“How are things with your ghost?”

Steve shrugged, like the mere reference to Bucky wasn’t causing his heart to speed up.  “We’re going to meet up tonight.”

“Let me know how it goes?” 

Steve spotted Nat’s sleek, expensive luxury car that looked like it had never heard of the term ‘blending in’.  He’d always thought it was a funny car for a spy to have.  He approached the vehicle, Sam keeping just one pace behind him.  “Of course.  Gotta get going.”

“Can’t run everywhere.” 

“Hey fellas.” Natasha was leaning over slightly to get a good look at them through the open passenger window.  “Either of you know where the Smithsonian is?  I’m here to pick up a fossil.”

“Hilarious.” Steve grumbled, but he got into the car without complaint. 

Natasha gave Sam an evaluating look, the one that lead to the impression that she knew absolutely everything and was determining if you were worthy of her effort.  Steve wasn’t particularly fond of that look.  Apparently satisfied, she nodded at Sam before taking off down the street.  

“What’s going on?”  He asked as he buckled up, deciding that Nat’s driving definitely warranted any safety precautions he could take.

“They haven’t given me anything yet.”  Natasha sounded pretty annoyed by this.  “I’ve just been told that it’s a ‘developing situation’ and we’re going to be on call for it.” Steve’s face fell before he could exert any control over his facial muscles.  Nat noticed, of course.  “Got a hot date?  Is it bartender guy?”

Steve shot her an unimpressed look, then sighed.  It’s not like it was worth the effort of trying to keep things from the Black Widow.  She’d find out one way or another if she were so inclined.  Better to feed her bits so she wouldn’t go looking for information before he was ready.  “Not exactly.” 

“Not exactly in that you haven’t asked?  Or not exactly as in you’re not sure it’s a date?” Steve said nothing, but his expression must have said enough for him because Nat had already answered her own question.  “Trust me. He wrote his number on your arm; this is definitely a date.” 

“Do I need to be here for this conversation? Because I feel like you’ve got it covered.”  It came out rather snappish, and Steve instantly regretted it, even though he knew Nat wouldn’t take much offense.  She would, however, extrapolate the hell out of his defensiveness.  Hopefully she would come away with the idea that he was still dealing with wanting to be with another man.  No, he’d handled that little revelation last night, thank you very much.

“Hey, don’t get mad at me just because you have about as concealing a poker face as a greeting card.”

Steve opened his mouth to toss out a quip about being out of practice when the car came to a stop, and he realized that they’d arrived and Nat was already closing her door.  

They met up with Clint on the way into the elevator who was complaining about being on call and the inevitability of him missing the monster truck rally he’d just gotten tickets for.  “I mean, it’s not like I mind being on call so much, it’s just that shit always manages to go down right when things are getting interesting.”

Steve hummed in something that would be taken as agreement, but he hasn’t really had a life outside of SHIELD since he woke up, so he couldn’t feel for Clint, really.  The only time things actually seemed to be interesting was when he was with SHIELD.

They entered the briefing room and Rumlow was already there, poking at his phone, and looking rather bored.  He nodded to Rumlow, having worked with him regularly on nearly every mission that Fury determined he might need backup.  They weren’t friends, but they were friendly, and Rumlow didn’t ever seem inclined to question his orders or plays, so Steve hadn’t had any problems in their missions so far.  Though, Steve sometimes wished he’d be teamed with someone else. Rumlow never said or did anything that could be called insubordinate, but Steve always had the niggling feeling like Rumlow was humoring him by letting him call the shots.  It grated on Steve’s nerves, but there wasn’t any concrete evidence that he was anything shy of professional, so Steve had to keep his pet peeves on a leash. 

Fury entered, his presence demanding everyone’s undivided attention before he’d even said a word.  He pressed a button on his phone and an image of an advanced gun appeared on the screen behind him.  A very familiar looking gun.

“This weapon was recently recovered after a take-down of a known terrorist, Peter Jacobs.  You may be more familiar with him as the Red Sentinel.”

Steve frowned.  He hadn’t followed much of the Red Sentinel story except that it was some misguided fanatic who felt the world needed to be cleansed.  Really, he’d only heard about the man after he’d already been put into custody two months ago, and, as far as he’d known, SHIELD had nothing to do with any of it.  Except, they’d apparently taken interest when they’d found that gun.  “That’s HYDRA weaponry.  I thought it had all been destroyed following the war.”  

“That was the impression we were under.  SHIELD has been in possession of a few articles of this make and of similar make for research purposes. Supposedly, they were the only ones left.  But, our samples have all been either destroyed or in lockdown since Loki’s arrival, and every item is accounted for.”

“So where’d this one come from?” asked Clint.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.  Either it escaped the destruction of the HYDRA bases and our detection over the last 70 years or it was somehow recreated.  Jacobs was spotted several times near the ruins of at least two of the HYDRA bases that the Howling Commandos took down.”

Steve swallowed the news like rotten milk. “HYDRA is still out there?”

“It’s possible.  Jacobs didn’t appear to have the background to have developed something like this on his own.” Fury admitted.  “We could also be looking at a different organization trying to make use of some of HYDRA’s tech.  However, right now, I’m running this mission under the assumption that this is HYDRA, it’s extremely dangerous, and we must do everything in our power to dismantle it.  We cannot afford for them to have the sort of foothold they had in the 40’s.”

“Shouldn’t we get a move on, then?  Strike the bases immediately?” Rumlow suggested.

Fury shook his head.  “We’ve been monitoring the two locations and so far, we haven’t seen any movement at all.  Once we see more of the players involved, then we’ll make our move, but first we need to put some faces on this organization.”

“What about Jacobs?” Natasha added before Steve could make the point.  “He’d gotta know something.”

“We were unable to take him alive.” 

“Let me guess: suicide capsule?” Steve asked, remembering the preferred method of escape for captured HYDRA and not at all surprised that the news had been mislead about the arrest.  Fury nodded grimly.

So, Steve turned down Natasha’s offer of a ride to anywhere in the D.C. limits, and instead spent the afternoon viciously pummeling and breaking apart punching bags in the SHIELD workout facilities. He’d given his whole life to stopping HYDRA.  Finally on the cusp of having everything he’d dreamed of: war hero to please his father, excellent health to please his mother, winning over Peggy to please himself, and he’d thrown it all away to stop Red Skull and end HYDRA’s terrible schemes.  Except…

_...if a head is cut off, two more will take its place… _

… it hadn’t worked. And there wasn’t much to go on with Jacobs dead, but his death in itself was telling.  The upper echelon wouldn’t store cyanide capsules in their cheeks; they were too important and their mission fell too heavily on their shoulders.  Zola hadn’t, and he wasn’t even top dog back in the day.  Suicide pills spoke of expendability and expendability meant they had the numbers to be throwing loyal subjects away.  

The Howling Commandos had, without a doubt, crippled the organization. And Steve had beheaded it...

_...if a head is cut off, two more will take its place… _

… but that was 70 years ago, and that was a long time to build an army.  

So preoccupied with his disastrous thoughts, Steve nearly forgot about his evening plans.  It was almost 4:00 already, and he was still marinating in his sweaty workout clothes.  Steve rushed through a shower and tugged on the jeans and T-shirt he kept in his locker, frowning that he wouldn’t have time to stop by his house and change into his carefully picked out maybe-date-clothes.  He texted Jamie as soon as he climbed into the back of the cab, letting him know he was running late, but would be there shortly. 

_ Take your time. _  Jamie responded immediately. 

Steve debated again the merits of stopping by his apartment and tidying himself up a bit more, especially when they passed right by the building, but decided that casual was less of a crime than really late.  As it turned out, Jamie lived only a couple blocks away from his home in a decent-but-not-great building, and it was quite possibly a small miracle that they hadn’t run into each other sooner. Then again, they kept opposite schedules, so perhaps it wasn’t all that strange.  

Paying the fare, Steve suddenly felt the urge to delay his entrance.  He got into the elevator anyway. His stomach was cramping, reminding him that he’d skipped out on lunch in his upset state, and his palms felt clammy.  Maybe he was sick.  Maybe he should go home and make sure he didn’t get Jamie sick. Had he agreed to bring anything?  He didn’t think so, but maybe he should have brought something anyway.  He supposed alcohol would be the thing to bring, but since Jamie had invited him over to look at his brewing process, that seemed… insensitive.  

Steve took a deep breath and berated himself for his nerves.  It was going to be fine.  He checked the number on the door against the one on his phone four times before deciding to press the ringer. 

Twenty seconds later, Jamie swung open the door, excited smile cracking his face in two. Whatever hope Steve had had that seeing Jamie again would relieve him of his hallucinating Bucky was flushed down the drain in that instant.  He knew that face better than he knew his own, remembered the details with more clarity than anyone else’s face aside from perhaps his mother’s. 

Jamie’s smile slipped after a moment of silence, tapering down to a more forced grin. “Hi.”

“Uh… were you expecting someone else?”

“No.”  Jamie assured him.  “It’s just… you look upset.”

Steve blinked, wondering if he’d been that obvious, figurative raincloud following him from SHIELD.  “Sorry, I… tough day at the office.” 

Instead of calming him down, Jamie looked even more concerned, taking a step forward and abortively raising his hand to touch.  “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Shaking his head, Steve stomped down on his instinctive response to blurt out everything to this Bucky look-alike, unloading his frustration like he’d only ever managed to do with his best friend.  “It was just.. I found out some bad news.  I’d explain, but…”

Jamie was nodding along like he had poured out his guts, and Steve drank in the comforting sight.  His hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, clumps escaping and framing his face.  It looked almost careless, but Steve suspected it was artfully crafted to appear that way, just as his whole attire screamed casual outing.  Jeans, faded and worn, but not holey.  Plain green shirt overlapped by a jean-jacket stolen directly from an 80’s movie.  The ensemble was completed with heavy combat boots and soft, black leather gloves.  

“Are we going somewhere?” Steve asked, half because they were still standing in the open doorway and half because Jamie was dressed like he was going out for an autumn walk. 

“Sort of.” Jamie said, finally stepping all the way out and tugging the door shut behind him.  He didn’t give much else in the way of explanation, but Steve obediently followed him back onto the elevator and down to one of the lower floors.  It quickly became apparent that this was a storage area, and Jamie meant to take him inside.  “My place is kind of small, and the project sort of outgrew my closet, so I ended up renting a little extra space.”

The door opened from the base, sliding up like a garage door, and revealing a pleasant room with one curtained window and exactly one item covering every inch of a large folding table. It was a huge still. Bottles, decanters, tubing, wires, and jars were all balanced in particular order and looking more like a giant science experiment than a brewery.  “I kind of expected a bathtub.”  Steve admitted, circling the contraption and examining the set-up like he knew anything about it.

Jamie scoffed.  “Next you’ll be telling me you thought I worked at a speak-easy and fruity virgin was code for the good stuff.”

“Jerk.”

“I aim to please.” It wasn’t the right response to their ritual, but Jamie didn’t know their ritual, so it was a pretty good substitute.  

“So, tell me how this works.” Jamie did, in painstakingly intricate detail.  First, he reviewed the distilling process at its basics, and how to make a sample.  Then, he explained variations on the technique and what he’d added to the process, the mechanics and the flavoring.  He then explained the substitutions he’d had to make to the gear for financial and creative reasonings.  He discussed adjusting the strength of each batch for an absurdly long time.  Steve didn’t exactly follow it all, particularly when he found himself tuning out the words and enjoying the lilt of Jamie’s familiar voice.  He felt his shoulders unwind, muscles relaxing of their own volition. 

“You falling asleep on your feet?”  Jamie asked, suddenly beside him and poking him in the shoulder.  “Am I boring you that much?”

Steve straightened, but he didn’t really want to explain how good it felt just to listen to his voice and would he mind terribly recording a few books on tapes for Steve?  “Not at all.”

Jamie gave him a smile that was suspiciously similar to the one Nat used when she knew something that she thought you’d like to know but had zero intention of telling you about it.  And now that he thought about it, Jamie had a cadence in his speaking that was slightly different than what he remembered, that was similar to the way Nat spoke, though he couldn’t put his finger on how. 

“Are you Russian?”  Steve blurted out, almost cringing at the question.  They’d avoided personal questions up to this point, but Steve’s history was an open book on the internet, so it only seemed fair that Jamie allow him to ask. 

“...No.” Jamie responded with a hesitance that could mean almost anything, not pausing in his task of removing a series of bottles from a cooler beneath the table and lining them up along the ends of the surface.  They were labelled in sharpie with codes of numbers and letters.  “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”  

Jamie raised an eyebrow, but let the matter drop, apparently too excited about having Steve taste test each of the sample bottles.  He extracted a clipboard from somewhere and proceeded to take notes and prod Steve for his thoughts as he went down the line.  It felt disturbingly like being a the butt of an experiment again, but Jamie’s honest, innocent excitement had him continuing on as if the situation weren’t at all odd.  Finally, after three tries of each, Jamie had him select his favorite, which was capped and shoved into the pocket of his jacket.  

Steve’s stomach decided to growl loudly at that moment, and Jamie looked down at it as if examining a vociferous but well-loved child.  “Stay for dinner?”  Jamie asked.

“I wouldn’t want to put you out…” Steve began, trailing off in hopes that he’d be refuted.  He didn’t actually want to leave.  He thought he’d be pretty content to spend all his time listening to Jamie ramble in his storage room.  

Jamie waved him off as they made their way back to the elevator.  “I made chili earlier.  Far too much chili for any one person to eat, so maybe you can humble yourself to helping me finish it off.”

“I love chili.”  Steve agreed happily.  

‘Kind of small’ was a generous assessment for the apartment.  It was caught somewhere between a one-bedroom and a studio, long and narrow in design.  There was an old couch shoved in a corner facing a flat-screen TV on the wall, and a tiny table in the kitchen, and that seemed to be the extent of Jamie’s furniture.  The kitchen was too small for them both to move around so Steve sat at the table, feeling especially abnormally large.  “Sorry it’s.. Uh, probably not what you’re used to, hanging out with Stark and all.”  Jamie commented, rubbing his elbow in a nervous gesture that he’d only ever seen Bucky do before turning to ladle out some chili onto rice.   It was all warm from the crock-pot, and looked to be freshly made for the occasion, though Steve had no intention of calling him on it. 

“It’s actually a whole lot closer to what I’m used to than the places I’ve been recently.  This place would put my first apartment to shame.”

The comment seemed to put Jamie at ease, and he set two giant bowls of chili on the table along with two tall glasses of water.  Their knees brushed when Jamie sat down, but it was really unavoidable at the tiny table.   Steve tucked into his food, finding the chili to be tasty and his resolution to eat it regardless of taste unnecessary.  Jamie seemed to have a hearty appetite too and was quietly munching away across from him.

His gloves were still on.

Steve had a moment of recollection forced on him: Schmidt with every inch of skin covered and a skin mask over his hideous Red Skull.  Maybe that’s why Jamie was keeping his hands covered, his facial similarities just a mask fashioned to look like Bucky.  HYDRA was back, so apparently everything was a possibility.

“It’s not that bad, is it?”  Jamie asked tentatively, like he meant it as a joke but really wanted to hear Steve’s assessment.  

“No, it’s good.” Steve declared, taking another hurried bite, but it was difficult to swallow.  Once the thought had entered his brain that Jamie was just a HYDRA trick, it didn’t want to leave him.  “It’s just… your gloves.”

Jamie suddenly looked very uncomfortable, and Steve had the stabbing fear that he wasn’t wrong.  “Another time, okay?” Jamie begged.

“It’s just… your hands aren’t like, flaming red, right?” 

“Is that a supervillain trait?” Jamie asked with a laugh that died when he apparently realized how close to home it was.  He tugged off his right glove, held up a perfectly peach hand with wiggling fingers, and then tugged it back on.  “You’ll notice I also don’t have six fingers on my right hand.”

“What?”

“Nobody’s made you watch The Princess Bride yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, I hope your evening is clear because we really need to remedy that.”

Steve smiled, thoughts of HYDRA and Red Skull disappearing beneath the genuineness of Jamie’s interest.  And really, why would HYDRA want to make him spend his off days learning about how distilleries worked?  “I think I could hang around for that.”

Jamie stood, unable to wait, enormous serving of chili abandoned… or actually consumed apparently, in his haste to set up the movie. Steve finished off his own bowl, contemplated getting seconds, but nixed the idea as too presumptuous before joining Jamie on the couch.  It was barely large enough for the two of them, both being built heavily, and they were pressed together.  The heat of Jamie’s body was distracting, but he forced the thought away as he concentrated on the movie, which may or may not have already been on his list.

Jamie seemed to thoroughly enjoy the movie, slapping his hand on Steve’s thigh several times and demanding that he, “watch this part” in his excitement, but diligently avoided spoilers.  He remembered Bucky displaying a few of these antics, although quieter, when they’d sneak into the theaters.  He was never pressed quite so close, though, and he certainly had never leaned his head on Steve’s shoulder the way that Jamie was doing now. 

When the movie finished, they both sat still on the couch as the credits rolled and even when the menu popped back up.  Afraid of overstaying his welcome, Steve dragged himself to his feet and shuffled toward the door.  “I should get going.”

Jamie followed him, opening the door and leaning against it.  “Can we do this again?” 

Steve was thrilled by the tacit admission that his host had had a good time, but drew the line firmly at jumping for joy (at least in front of him).  “I’d like that.” 

Jamie darted forward, pressing the bottle of Steve’s selected favorite batch into Steve’s hand and, while he was distracted by the gift, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek.  Then Jamie disappeared back inside, and Steve was once again alone with his thoughts and he was terrified that he would lose this weird new version of Bucky before he even figured out what the hell was going on.


	6. Wedding Colors

Steve dreams of trains and falling from them.  It’s not really an unusual experience, but the usual quiet platitudes of ‘it’s over’ and ‘nothing can hurt Bucky now’ just don’t have the same ring to them anymore and are completely ineffective.  He gets up two hours earlier than he would otherwise and goes for a run.  He doesn’t push himself hard, but he lets himself disappear into the pounding of feet on asphalt and the unerringly steady beat of his heart.   

When they were young and could get away with it, Bucky would rest his head on Steve’s chest and listen to his fragile heart beat for hours, seemingly appeased by the action despite the rattling in his lungs right next door.  Steve let him get away with it because even though it actually made breathing a bit more difficult, it was worth it for the solid presence and reminder that yes, he was alive.  Steve’s mother chased him out one day when Steve was incredibly sick and that had been the end of that particular brand of comfort.  Sometimes afterward, Bucky would rest his palm flat against his chest when Steve was not doing well and close his eyes.  Steve would habitually bat his hand away after a few minutes and complain, but Bucky always just smiled at him and wouldn’t rise to the bait.

The sky eventually lightened and the birds started their daily chattering.  Steve spotted a familiar form starting in on the opposite side of the circuit and sped up a bit.  When he approached Sam, he muttered, “on your left” as he was passing, causing the veteran to visible jerk.  

“I thought we were past this!”  Sam shouted after him, but he was already too far to reasonably respond. The next time he caught up, he matched Sam’s pace and smiled belligerently at him.  “How long have you been out here?”

“A while.”  Steve replied, fighting himself on whether to open up or keep his secrets.  Ultimately, he wanted someone to talk to and Sam remarkably made him want to blabber out his heart.   “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Does this have to do with your ghost?”

Steve cringed but didn’t shy away from the question.  “I thought seeing him again would help me sort it all out in my head.  It’s just worse.  I can’t seem to see one without the other.”  He wanted to shout at Sam that they were the same person, but Sam’s previous explanation still made a whole lot more sense than Steve’s inexplicable surety that Jamie was somehow Bucky.  

“Well,” Sam said, pausing to either collect his thoughts or breathe through their pretty vigorous pace.  “I think you’re seeing them as the same person because you’re concentrating on all the ways they’re similar.  Maybe spend some time thinking about how they’re different.  Once you distinguish their personalities, maybe your eyes will serve you better.”

Mentally, Steve found himself shying away from the idea, like reveling in their similarities would keep Bucky alive somehow.  He let out a sigh.  He couldn’t keep deluding himself.   Bucky was dead.  He  _ knew _ that. And yet… “Yeah, I’ll… I’ll give it a shot.” 

Sam nodded, and seeming to see that his companion desperately wanted to change topics, slid back to his favorite discussion point.  “What would you think of leading your own group at the VA?”  

Steve immediately shook his head.  “My schedule is way too unpredictable to commit to anything regular.   I’d just let them down.”

“It’s just an offer.” Sam gave him a searching look that made Steve feel suddenly vulnerable, and he had to force himself not to sprint ahead and avoid it. “If you change your mind, we could make it work.  We could set it up when I’m free, and I can cover any time you can’t make it.”

“I do have a job.” The bite to his words wasn’t intentional, but Sam backed down instantly.

“No pressure.” 

Steve shrugged, and they ran in silence for a few minutes that could have been awkward after their rather tense words but wasn’t.

“It’s just that you don’t seem altogether happy with your job.”

“I protect people; it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“I’m not judging.”  Sam said with a half-smile, keeping his perceptive eyes off of him.

“I suppose it’s not exactly what I imagined when I came out of the ice.”

Sam opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by the loud beep from Steve’s pocket.   He’d cranked the volume on his phone in case Jamie wanted to get ahold of him, but he hadn’t actually expected anything, especially this early.  Still, the name at the top of the text message confirmed his hopes of the sender, and Steve waved off Sam as he moved toward a bench.  “I’ll stop by the VA later today, okay?”

If Sam responded, Steve was too distracted to notice, his face buried in his phone.  

_ ‘I assume you’re already up, like this isn’t the worst part of the day.  I just wanted to make sure I didn’t overstep any boundaries last night.’ _

Steve frowned in response, trying to figure out what Jamie could possibly be referring to.  Was it a step too far to rest your head on someone’s shoulder? Give them a kiss so brief it was practically nonexistent? Make chili? Instead of trying to work it out, he just slapped on his most assuring face, despite knowing it was completely unnecessary, and painstakingly tapped out a response.   _ ‘You didn’t.  Why are you awake this early?’ _

Steve congratulated himself on keeping his reply simple and fast because the speed of Jamie’s response suggested he’d been sitting there waiting.  Steve tried to keep the adoring and sappy smile off his face.  

_ ‘I haven’t gone to bed yet.’   _ Then, a minute later, another text came in. _  ‘I guess I’m nervous. I haven’t done this in… a while.’  _

_ ‘Believe it or not, it’s been a stretch for me, too.’  _

_ ‘70 year dry-spell?’   _ He could picture Jamie giving a devious smile as he wrote and wished this was a call instead, and he could at least enjoy the sound of his voice.  He didn’t really understand the future’s obsession with making social activities less social. 

_ ‘Hard to get any action in the arctic ocean.’ _

_ ‘Narwhals don’t do it for you?’  _

Steve went to type a snarky response, but just hit call instead.  He wanted to hear Bucky’s teasing tone spilling over the speaker.  He thought about Sam’s earlier suggestions of separation and tried not to sigh.  He waved to the jogger and picked himself up from the bench, wandering toward his apartment in an effort to prevent eavesdroppers. 

“Too much?”  Jamie asked as way of answering his phone.  He sounded tentative, hesitant in a way that Bucky never was.  Well, if Bucky was nervous, he’d never show it, choosing to mask it with a mold of confidence that could often fool Steve.  Except, maybe he would, to someone he was sweet on. Steve shook his head, unsure if the tone fell into a similarity or difference.

“Nah.”  Steve dismissed. “I’m just not really a fan of texting.”

“Careful, your age is showing.”

“I wanted to hear your voice.” Steve cringed.  Four sentences in and already he was working at chasing Jamie away.  That was too intimate for one date, right?  How the hell was he supposed to know that anyway?  It’s not like he’d gone around with many people and even if he had, times had changed.  

Jamie coughed, and Steve could actually hear the blush in his voice as he continued and the feeling of remorse dissipated because that was nothing if not a wonderful outcome of his comment.  “I just was texting because… I mostly wanted to know… I mean, how closeted is this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was just thinking about where we could go next time, you know, but then it occurred to me that Captain America playing backseat bingo with another man is probably big news that you don’t want getting out there, so… I guess I’m just wondering if we’re playing dirty little secret or if I can offer to take you dancing.”

“I don’t want to keep you a secret!”  Steve blurted out before realizing that keeping their relationship under wraps probably was the best option at the moment.  Jamie was going to get dragged through a media circus for his association with Steve, not to mention the whole queer thing. “But maybe we should keep it on the down-low until we’ve got a proper plan to face the press.” 

“So no changing my Facebook status.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“One of these days, I’m going to call you on that.” There was an obvious grin in Jamie’s voice even as he said in a self-recriminating way, “God, I meant to ask you if you’re planning to hang out in the closet, and I manage to ask when the press release of our day long relationship is.”

Steve chuckled.  “Pick out the wedding colors, too?”

“I’m thinking red and black to make sure you feel right at home even so far away from the gates of hell.”

Steve decided he probably shouldn’t find being called Satan so endearing, and he was probably really, really far gone.  “That’s very considerate of you.” 

“I’m going to bed.  Goodnight, asshole.”

“Sleep well, jerk.”

Steve felt the stupid grin on his face but couldn’t squelch it now matter how hard he tried.  He was in such a good mood that he didn’t even try to avoid the man practically falling over himself to get a selfie with Captain America just a few feet from his complex. 


	7. Second Date and Dances

The phone calls quickly became a daily occurrence.  Jamie seemed to have a strong preference for speaking over texting as well, though Steve couldn’t be sure if it was Bucky’s old-timer sensibilities peaking through or because he’d have to take his gloves off to properly operate the touch-screen. Either way, Steve wasn’t commenting, especially since it worked in his favor.  The conversations weren’t a far stretch from the way he had chatted for hours with Bucky about nothing at all, and they warmed him in a way that he hadn’t realized he needed.  Half the words were playful put-downs and teasing, but they masked caring inquiries and genuine interest.

The burden of playing Captain America in nearly every interaction eased each time they talked.  In fact, for once, Captain America wasn’t the elephant in the room waiting its turn to speak. Jamie didn’t ask about his work or what he did or the latest news coverage about the hero.  He didn’t even mention him at all except in passing.  Instead, he was much more preoccupied with hearing Steve’s stories about turning his underwear blue and spitting out his cereal the first time because it was disgustingly sweet and it was even too sweet for candy.  Jamie didn’t mind listening to him ramble about choosing a topic for his drawings or complain about the lack of proper gym gear in most locations.  He even encouraged the twenty minute rants when they’d explode out of Steve in misplaced frustration about technology and etiquette. 

Jamie always talks a lot, but he doesn’t say much.  Steve still knew frighteningly little about his past despite multiple inquiries, but he has heard twice the story of Jamie saving a dancer at work from a persistent lecher with just a free drink and carefully applied pressure from one finger.   He’s not sure the story is true, but like Bucky, Jamie seems to care more about a good story telling than being troubled with facts.  When Steve lapses into silence, Jamie will tell him about the latest book he read (always a different one), or a new movie he’s excited about coming to theaters, or a new invention from a science journal (always manages to sound like science fiction to Steve), or his most recent misadventure in trying new recipes.  

It’s easy for Steve to fall back into step with this familiar camaraderie. It’s easy to forget that they’ve only known each other a week with the way that Jamie can instantly pick up his mood from his tone of voice and seems to know the right thing to say to lift his spirits.  It’s easy to forget that Jamie doesn’t remember or, more accurately, never had memories of them growing up together when he always seems to catch his references and knows exactly how to make his playful teasing ring true to Bucky’s old mannerisms.   

Steve falls into a routine while he’s been fortunate to have a strange extended break from his missions.  He’s not sure if it’s because he’s still on call for the possible HYDRA mission or if there’s another explanation for the gap, but for once, he’s nothing but thrilled to be left to his own devices.  In the morning, he goes for a run with Sam, and spends a few hours at the VA.  He spends most of his afternoon chatting with Jamie on the phone, calls that seem to get longer and start earlier each day.  In the evenings, he finds himself a quiet place to sketch.   He doesn’t go back to the strip club, though the temptation is always there. He almost laughs at the idea that he’s being tempted by a strip club.  

When he found the time to visit Peggy again, she wasn’t much of herself, but commented on his chipper mood regardless.  And then she commented on the quality and extensive nature of his blush and inquired if there wasn’t a woman involved.   Steve didn’t know what to say or if he should say anything at all, so he finally settled on, “You’ll always be my best gal, Peggy, you know that.”

Peggy didn’t tell him that he should move on, that he’s allowed his own happiness, like he’d expect from Peggy on a good day, but the lapse back into not knowing who he is doesn’t hurt as much today. 

“You sound… sad.”  Jamie made the comment not two minutes later over the phone.  Steve wasn’t sure how he knew since he’d barely spoken three words so far, but it was an eerie talent that Bucky had always had, so he supposed that it made sense in a weird way.   

Steve was about to deny it, but decided that Jamie would probably just see through the lie anyway.  People are always telling him he’s a lousy liar.   But mostly he finds he doesn’t like to lie to Jamie.   “I suppose I am, a bit.  I saw an old friend.”

“Ah.”  Somehow, Jamie managed to encompass a whole treatise on empathy and understanding inside of a single syllable.   It strangely made Steve feel like crying.  “I imagine that is very lonely.”

“I -” Steve wasn’t sure what to say. Part of him wanted to spill his guts.  Most of him wanted to insist that he didn’t need any help.  All of him wanted to keep Jamie nearby.

“So, I’m about to order massive quantities of pizza.   Want to come over and partake?  Maybe we can talk, or, like sit in awkward silence.  I’ll let you pick.”

“Uh… now?”  His heart was suddenly beating faster at the notion.  He hadn’t seen Jamie since their date a week ago.  

“Well, if you’re free. I have the night off.  I know you have stuff and… things.”  Jamie was sounding increasingly uncomfortable, like he’d somehow managed to offend Steve with the idea of pizza.  “You’re probably busy.”

“I’m actually not.  I guess I can put up with you if you’re going to feed me pizza for the effort.”  Steve smiled at Jamie’s insulted harrumph, but he didn’t take back the invitation.  “Are you always going to plan things last minute, though?”

“You can resolve this problem by asking me out instead, you know.”

It wasn’t until that moment that it occurred to Steve that Jamie’s light-hearted bantering over the phone about getting together may have been him hinting and hoping or expecting Steve to ask.   He supposed it was his turn and he simply missed the social cues to pick up on it.  “I’m an idiot.”

“At least you’re self-aware.  What d’ya say?”

“I say I can be there in 30 minutes.”

Steve made it in 23 minutes, even counting the stop he made at his own apartment to change and straighten up.  The jitters reappeared in the elevator of Jamie’s building, like the space was somehow the cause and not the impending visit.  Would this be the time that Bucky’s visage faded, and he’d see Jamie for who he was?  The thought scared Steve more than he cared to admit, and he couldn’t help but feel guilty over that.  After all, he was here to be with Jamie, and even if he was only making the effort because of how much Jamie embodied everything he loved in Bucky, Jamie didn’t know that.  Jamie believed he’d won Steve over with his captivating charm and lovable personality.  And he did.  It was just… it was also Bucky’s charm and personality.  Steve shook his head in confusion and stamped down on the feelings brutally.  Bucky or Jamie, there was no way Steve was giving him up, no matter what kinds of guilt cropped up.  

And then Jamie was greeting him at the door, wide grin fixed firmly in place and all Steve’s worries faded away in the face of such determined good cheer. “You beat the pizza.” Jamie informed him, waving him inside with one gloved hand and closing the door behind them.  He wasn’t wearing his jacket this time, which served to make the gloves even more obvious, but Steve resolutely did not look at them.  Jamie would tell him when he was comfortable and he wasn’t ever going to be comfortable if Steve kept staring at his hands.  “You want to watch a movie while we eat?”

“Sure.”  Steve agreed amiably, making himself comfortable on the couch while Jamie fussed over the video rack squeezed between the TV and the corner wall.  He was currently flitting between a handful of science fiction movies that hadn’t made it onto Steve’s list and didn’t look like they deserved a spot anyway.  But Steve didn’t breathe one word of complaint; he was there for the company, not the quality of his movies (or taste). 

After setting everything up, Jamie turned and gave him a dirty look where he sat on the couch.  Steve wasn’t sure what he’d done until Jamie frowned and said, “That’s my spot.”

Steve glanced around the barren apartment.  “This is the only spot.”  He informed him, caught between confused and teasing. He supposed this strange behavior could be filed under not Bucky-like.  Bucky never minded sharing and wouldn’t hesitate to give up his seat if it was the only one available.  Of course, Jamie had shared the couch with him just last week...

Jamie shook his head.  “I mean, that’s my side of the couch.  I’ve been working up the proper butt grooves for months.”

It then occurred to Steve that Jamie didn’t care about sharing; he didn’t want Steve on his left. There was nothing wrong with the bartender’s  _ hands _ , but just his left hand, the one he hadn’t exposed to his houseguest over their chili dinner.  Steve laughed appropriately and shifted to the other cushion so that Jamie could settle in on the appropriate side.  If this is what Jamie needed, it was easy enough for Steve to give. 

It took only five minutes for Steve to decide that the movie was every bit as terrible as he’d predicted. He thought he may have seen better special effects as a kid, which was certainly saying something for a movie that came out only ten years prior.  But Jamie was having a blast and the plot was actually engaging, enough that when the pizza arrived fifteen minutes later, Steve was startled out of the film by the knock on the door.  

Jamie shot out of his seat and hurried to the door like he was starving to death, returning with a stack of pizzas that nearly blocked his vision, which he dumped on the creaking kitchen table.  “You have other guests coming?” Steve joined him, accepting a plate and sliding several slices from the first box onto it.  Ham without pineapple.  He’d never liked the taste of pineapple on his pizza. The next two boxes revealed some of Steve’s favorites while Jamie sifted through and stacked his plate high.  The selections were almost exactly what Steve would have chosen himself.  

“No.” Jamie replied defensively as he tugged a piece of pizza to the edge of his plate with his mouth and nibbled on it. “I just like pizza.”

“Me too.”  Steve smiled, sitting back down in his assigned spot. 

When the movie was finished and exorbitant amounts of pizza consumed on both their parts, Jamie wasted no time in starting up some music. He was then shifting around the kitchen, filling up some glasses.  He returned moments later, drinks in hand, and gave Steve one.  

“More Dragon’s Breath?”  

“Is that bad?”  Jamie asked, smiling indulgently at him.  

“Not at all.  I just want to be prepared this time, is all.”

“It’s the good stuff.”  Jamie assured him.  Steve drank.  “I thought,” Jamie continued as he adjusted the sound and flicked through a few slower songs to find something more upbeat and modern, “That since I can’t take you out dancing, I could bring the dancing to us.”

Steve licked his lips and looked into big, hopeful eyes.  “Jamie, I have a confession. I can’t dance at all.”  Bucky had tried valiantly to teach him, and he knew some basic steps to traditional dances, but there was no question that he had no talent for it.  Originally, he had lacked the lung capacity and coordination to make a good impression, but even after the serum, his efforts were hardly improved.  

“Everyone can dance.”  Jamie argued, words echoing Bucky’s precisely.

“I have two left feet.”  Steve explained.  

Jamie rolled his eyes, seemed to inspect something on the ceiling and then turned back to Steve.  “I’m calling bullshit on that one.  First of all, that phrase is literally impossible.  You have two feet, therefore, one of them must be on the right.  Secondly, the fluidity, muscle control and footwork is all basically identical to what you’re already doing when you use hand-to-hand combat, just applied differently.  Thirdly, it’s just us here with no scoreboard.  It’s not like you’re going to get it wrong.”

“Oh, I’ll find a way.” Steve responded, even though his mind was still caught on Jamie’s comparison of dancing to fighting.  When he thought about it that way, it didn’t seem so insurmountable.  Jamie seemed to have inherited Bucky’s gift for cajoling him into doing things he didn’t really want to do. 

Jamie was already waving him off. “You may not be aware of this, but dancing has really devolved in your absence.  Half of it is basically throwing your hands in the air and wiggling now.  The other half is miming sex while standing next to someone.”  
Steve snorted, dribbling liquid down his shirt and coughing in surprise.  “You’re exaggerating.”

“Maybe a little, but not so much as you’d think.”  Jamie smiled up at him and set their glasses aside.  “Come on, I’ll teach you something no one can mess up.  Zero footwork. A favorite among brides and children.”

“Alright, alright.”  Steve consented, picking up the gestures within seconds and following along to an upbeat pop song he vaguely recalled hearing before.   After the macarena, Jamie proceeded to teach him the electric slide (which was way more footwork than previously indicated) and then the chicken dance and after that, they dissolved into fits of uncontrollable giggles which neither of them ever intended to admit to anyone, even if it was mostly the alcohol talking by this point.  

“Hey, that’s mine.” Steve slurred, pointing at Jamie where he was stealing speedy gulps from Steve’s glass, which he had specifically left on the right of the television.

Jamie shrugged.  “Mine’s empty.  You can share.”

Steve glanced over at the other tall clear glass and confirmed that it was, indeed, empty.  It took a moment for his inebriated brain to remind him why that was a bad idea.  “But I don’t want you to get alcohol poisoning.”

Defiantly, Jamie finished off Steve’s glass and collapsed beside him on the couch, leaning heavily into his side.  “Don’t worry about it.  I’ve got excellent constitution.”  The effect of the comment was seriously undermined by the way Jamie tripped over the word constitution four times before spitting it out.  

“You don’t have to try and show off for me.” Steve argued, remembering how quickly the stuff had affected him.  “That was stupid.”

“Seriously, Stevie, don’t worry about it.” 

Steve had every intention of continuing to worry about it despite the unexpected affectionate pet name but for the fact that Jamie had turned and planted a sloppy kiss on him. Steve jerked back like it hurt and nearly fell off the edge of the couch.  

“I’m sorry.”  Jamie was already apologizing, sitting up straight and looking anywhere but at Steve.  “I thought… I thought that…”

“No, no!”  Steve grasped Jamie’s bicep in what was meant to be an assuring grip but caused the other man to flinch.  Steve let go. “I do want to kiss you.  But you’re drunk.  And I’m drunk. I don’t want to do it like this.  I don’t want there to be any regrets.”

Jamie glared at the ground petulantly but kept his distance.  “There is no universe in which I regret kissing you.”

“Well, I’ll regret it if I don’t remember it happening.”  Steve explained, carefully leaving out the details about his concerns of where kissing might lead should his inhibitions be lowered like this.  He wasn’t ready to take that step. He wasn’t even sure if he was ready to kiss Jamie when there was still all of this Bucky issue hanging in the air.  He stood, feeling the world tilt and decided he should definitely call a cab to take him home.  “I better go.”

Steve wasn’t sure if Jamie said anything, but he didn’t walk him to the door.  He wasn’t quite the level of drunk he’d been the first night he’d gotten drunk, but he was pretty far gone, leaning heavily against the elevator wall and stumbling slightly as he dropped into the cab.  It was only a couple blocks, but the distance seemed truly overwhelming to his shaking legs.  Steve managed not to throw up in the taxi, but tipped as if he had, hoping the foreign and quiet driver hadn’t recognized him.  

Despite his drunken and tired state, it was a couple hours before he drifted off to sleep, mind swirling with thoughts of Jamie and Bucky.  It’s not like there weren’t differences, he decided, but that the differences could so easily be accounted for due to the change in scenario.  Bucky never would have eaten two and a half large pizzas, but he probably would have tried if they’d ever had that kind of money.  Bucky had never pointed out similarities between fighting and dancing, despite doing a fair amount of both, but he’d always had a good reason to avoid glorifying combat.  Bucky would never ask out a guy on a date or try to kiss them, but perhaps that had entirely been because a blue ticket home would have been the best outcome from that situation before.  

Or maybe Steve was making excuses to try and preserve the possibility of a living Bucky.  Part of him demanded that he drop the whole thing, but the rest of him screamed at the injustice.  

Then his mind flitted back to Jamie’s strange behaviors and the obvious secrets he was keeping.  There was clearly something going on with his left hand, for starters.   His appetite was on par with Steve’s who had rarely seen such gluttony beyond an eating contest.  He apparently might even be able to outdrink Steve, too, which was all kinds of bizarre to think about.  He avoided talking about himself, like there were things in his past he didn’t want Steve to know.   It was all rather disconcerting, and the piling secrets were very much unlike Bucky.  

Still, when Jamie texted him apologies later that evening, Steve felt nothing but relief that alcohol poisoning hadn’t done him in when Steve had abandoned him earlier and made every attempt to convince Jamie that he didn’t need to be sorry and everything was fine between them.  

Steve finally drifts off sometime between texts and immediately falls into a dream about what might have happened if he hadn’t stopped Jamie from kissing him earlier.  He wakes up stiff and aching in a variety of ways and wonders why he’s so determined to find the line between Bucky and Jamie at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure if I should post this chapter or just delete it. Like, nothing happens to further any attempt towards plot, and it's kind of predictable and boring. Not to mention that a native English speaker should definitely not have this many issues with using the proper tense. But, then I was like, well, it's been forever since I updated and what with starting a new job, I probably will continue to be very slow. So really, it was this or nothing, so yeah. You get this.


End file.
